


Don't Let's Start

by rasputinian



Category: LISA (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, detailed warnings at the beginning of each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-10 00:05:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7822513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rasputinian/pseuds/rasputinian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a bunch of short fics based on headcanons sent to me on tumblr dot com.</p><p>more 2 follow, more 2 come</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Let's Start

**Author's Note:**

> _headcanon: rage ironhead is incredibly, incredibly gay. the ladies loved him, but his true love was life in the wring, grappling with all those muscular, sweaty, greased-up men... but in a totally hetero way dude!! when he says "I love you, man" to brad he means it as bros!! not a HINT of homo in him, brother!!_
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> I never even recruited el rage??? Not when olan had a much cooler hat. but what can I say: nothing like gay luchadores to warm this cold heart
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> cw: gore, homophobia, alcohol

If there’s anything good about being with Brad, it’s the thrills. Rage straddles some poor asshole’s chest, holding his head and shoulders up by the collar of his poncho, as he drives his skull again and again into his nose until it’s a bloody pit, a weak spatter of blood coming up with every impact. He doesn’t stop. There’s still fire in the pit of his gut and grit in his teeth, the satisfaction that rings through his skull with every impact that almost makes up for the fact that the guy isn’t fighting back anymore.

Rage hasn’t gotten this much action since before the flash, since Ironhead Lucha Libre was in its prime. Action, the fire, the grit, the force. This is what he lived for. It wasn’t the money or the fame or the girls. It was seeing a worthy opponent, beautiful, all sinew and muscle and bone, sweat shining in the blinding stagelight, across from you. It was finding his weak points and taking him down, almost a seduction, and holding him down against you until it’s over, and you’re bloody and spent. Rage didn’t realize how much he needed it until he was sitting beside a fire after a fight, flipping through one of the seventy mags that Brad had paid him, and it occurred to him that he didn’t care. No amount of tits and ass could make him feel like he did in moments like this.

He pulls back to survey the damage. The guy’s face is ruined. It’s not even a face anymore, a bizarre, red moonscape.

“Woo!” he shouts, dropping his opponent to the ground with an unceremonious thunk. His chest is heaving as he turns around and wipes forehead with the back of his arm. It comes back red, and El Rage realizes that, yeah, he’s probably going to have to wash his mask again. (Once everyone else was asleep, of course. Just because the world had gone to shit didn’t mean he’s lost his standards as a luchador.) Brad, Olan, and Terry seem to have been done for a while now. They’re wiping blood onto their pants, popping knuckles, running fingers through their hair. It takes a moment for Brad to notice him.

“You okay?” Brad asks.

“Just feeling it, brother!” Brad nods, takes a loud puff of air that might have been a laugh. Something bubbles in El Rage’s chest. He licks the blood off his lips and grins.

“Let’s keep moving,” he says, and he turns, the other two following close behind him. El Rage pushes himself up and bolts after them.

“Hey! Wait for me! Don’t make me break out the flying elbow drop!” he calls, and, just for the fuck of it, he does it anyway, dives forward, lands his elbow right in between Terry’s shoulder blades. He goes down easy, just like Rage knew he would.

 

That night, they sit around the fire drinking whiskey, straight. Olan flips through a magazine. He read them for the articles, he’d said, and Rage was bound to believe him. Terry is curled up in the dirt, his back to the fire. Rage can’t see his face, but he’d bet money that he was passed out. He’d wake him up in a couple hours. There’s no way in hell that Rage is taking his shift on watch, not when… Well, Rage isn’t drunk. Rage didn’t get drunk, but he’s definitely feeling _something_ , and, through the haze of whatever this feeling was, he wonders if trying to keep up with Brad and Olan was a bad idea.

They weren’t bad guys, the lot of them. Clearly Olan was alright; anyone who drank that hard and could still handle a bow was the kind of man that Rage would be proud to team up with. Besides, the guy was generous. This was the second night in a row Olan had supplied the liquor. Terry seemed like kind of a queer, the kind of guy Rage would fuck with in high school, but he was nice enough he guessed. He vaguely remembered seeing a note talking about how to treat poisoning pasted to the remnants of an old McDonald’s a few months back, and he’d wondered who had the time to have such neat handwriting, but he didn’t bother to thank him for the hint. He didn’t want to give him the wrong idea.

But Brad was something else entirely. Brad was a warrior, someone Rage could truly call his brother. Brad never talked about himself, not to Rage, anyway, but, one time, Terry had mentioned that Brad used to teach karate. (Why would Brad tell Terry that? It didn’t make any sense.) Rage had brought up Ironhead Lucha Libre to him. Multiple times, just in case he forgot. Maybe they could share tips, he had suggested. Teaching strategies, techniques, stuff like that. Maybe they could partner up after society got back on its feet. Mixed martial arts, he had said, and Brad had nodded all throughout his little presentation, but he’d kept that same, serious look on his face. Worse yet, he hadn’t said yes, but Rage isn’t too concerned. Maybe he just needed time to think it over. In fact, now was probably the perfect time to bring it up again.

“Brad,” Rage says, bowing his head for a moment before he feels the liquor slosh to the front of his skull. He forces himself upright. Brad looks at him expectantly, but Rage can’t remember what he was about to say. He returns to what he knows. He pounces, pulls Brad into a headlock, and he can feel the electricity as he braces himself to hold him still, a challenge but nothing El Rage wasn’t willing to take on, but nothing happens. Brad just sits there, doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even lean closer to him. (“Wait, why would he do that?” Rage asks himself, but he forgets the prompt that started this line of questioning only a moment later.) “Come on, brother, aren’t you gonna fight back?”

“Get off.”

“You gonna make me?” Rage laughs, but Brad doesn’t move, and he can feel the disappointment settling in. “Come on, what’s a little sparring between bros?” No response. For a moment, Rage thinks Brad isn’t going to do anything. He even contemplates letting him go before things get too weird, holding him like that. Then, all at once, he’s flat on his back, his guts adjusting to the momentum of being flipped. His body stings from the impact, and his head feels like it’s quickly circling a bathtub drain. “Holy shit.” It’s all he can think of to say. He stares, dazed, into the night sky before turning to see Brad, tending to what was left of the whiskey as if nothing had happened.  “Brother,” Rage slurs, a dazed laughter in his voice. “I fucking… I fucking love you, man.” Brad looks over his shoulder before turning back to the fire. For a moment, Rage imagines that he can see him smile.

If there’s anything good about being with Brad, it’s the thrills.

**Author's Note:**

> Rage “masc4masc” Ironhead strikes again
> 
> do you have a headcanon you want to see me write a fic about? submit them at clownsympathizer.tumblr.com


End file.
